


Violations

by Dorkjitsu



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorkjitsu/pseuds/Dorkjitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Orig. published 2008) Don/? Humiliation kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violations

The metal table was cold beneath his cheek. Thick leather straps kept his arms bound by his side, and his legs secured in a slightly parted position. Someone had covered his eyes, like hooding a wild bird to keep it calm. 

Donatello was not calm. 

Muscles strained and bulged as he fought the restraints, pulling his head up as much as his position and shell would allow. The leather didn't so much as creak in response to his protests. Trapped. Strapped to an examination table. Don's pulse leapt to his throat as he heard the distinctive swish of a labcoat. It was distinctive because he, himself, used such attire when handling particularly hazardous or messy materials. But to hear it on another body as he was being held immobile with an uncertain future...this was the horror of nightmares. 

He made a shout, a plea for compassion and an explanation of intelligent sentience, but it only came out as an animalistic cry. The bit dug into the corners of his mouth and made speech impossible. If only he could speak to them! Hell, they could compare notes on genetic structure! But all he could manage was a minute turn of the head so that his cheek was no longer laying in the puddle of his own saliva that had collected. 

There was no response to his attempt of articulation, but the mysterious movement continued. His sight robbed from him by the heavy material, he expanded his senses throughout the room. The rustle of a labcoat allowed him to track the person's whereabouts. The light clacking of heels told Donatello that the scientist was likely female, unless of course, he was being held by a crossdresser with a penchant for floral perfume. 

There was a rustling of cardboard followed by barely perceptible squeaks. Like rubber or latex. Seconds passed as a myriad of horrible possibilities marched through Don's mind. Syringes, implants, extractions, and many more ghastly fates each had a turn in his imagination. His fears were both banished and confirmed as a unique snap sounded through the room. You don't have to be a genius to recognize that sound; she had just put on disposable gloves. His body tensed involuntarily. 

There was a clink, something being picked up from a tray no doubt, then the heels were moving closer. A combination of the scientist's proximity and Donatello's labored, anxious breathing filled his senses with that sweet, feminine perfume. His head swam for a moment, spinning and scrambling before he was able to collect himself. He would not succumb to primal instinct and panic like a caged animal. With a mental reprimand, he schooled his body back into a normal breathing pattern. He was bound, helpless and vulnerable. Whatever would happen in the near future, he truly had no choice but to grit and bear it. Help would come for him, he knew it. 

A muffled yelp escaped as the slender, gloved hand grabbed his tail and lifted. The action was abrupt and detached, as if she were flipping the page of a magazine. Don squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, praying that she would be satisfied with a non-obtrusive observation. 

His muscles clenched as she ran a finger questing along the underside of his tail. For something so intimate, her movements were far from sensual. No actions wasted, her hands searched his tail with the professionalism of a veterinarian. Was she checking for his gender? Did she really need to check?! Funny how even when one has been splayed for observation and are unable to keep saliva from dribbling out of the muzzled mouth, their personal ego is able to take yet another blow. 

She must have found what she was searching for, because she pressed something cold and slick to his rectum with accuracy 

His form twitched as he fought the restraints with renewed vigor. He tried desperately to curl his tail in and against himself, but the hand still holding him up and exposed did not waver. A gloved finger pressed in, coating him with abrupt and insensitive pumps. Donatello's hands clinched, fingernails cutting painfully into his palms. But the pain was good. It distracted from the current violations of his body. 

When two slick fingers pushed in, there were no distractions strong enough. She had to be preparing him, but for what? A probe of some kind? A thermometer? 

There was a flash of something hard and cold against his pucker, then it was unceremoniously shoved in. The bit dug into flesh as he gave a strangled cry. It had fallen on deaf ears, however, as the thick cylinder made no pause. It stretched him, filled him and made his body respond in ways that were not at all appropriate for the situation. He couldn't stop the probe from sliding deeper; he was without the maneuverability to do anything other than squirm. Small, helpless sounds began as he twisted his neck to find a dry spot. 

There were none. 

So much saliva had escaped around the bit that he had no where else to go. Strapped to a table, pressed down into his own runoff, he could do nothing against the cold and detached administrations against him. The object had reached deep and was now being twisted around inside of him, the woman oblivious to the unwelcome feelings it was incurring. He was treated like something that had no feeling, no respect. His pure intellect no doubt exceeded that of his captors, his emotions were deep and rounded, and his life experiences had already encompassed more as a teenager than most well-ripened humans. Yet at that moment, it meant absolutely nothing beneath the microscope of scientific scrutiny. He was...a lab animal. 

It made his insides twist in a strange way. Indeed, his brain knew these things and hated them with loathing appellation. But his body, his body was responding. Treacherous blood was surging to his cock, making the underside of his tail swell at the once-hidden pouch. God, he did not want to draw attention to that particular part of his anatomy. 

Moisture escaped from the corners of his tightly squeezed eyes. All of this....degradation, and he was getting a hard-on. Shame was something hot and stinging, spreading from his face to the rest of his body like a wildfire. 

She must have been unsatisfied with the data gathered by the probe, for she pulled it out then back in with a twist. No inching, no gentleness. Just doing her job. 

Despite mental protests, his cock twitched within its confines. Not now, he begged. His control was tethered by the thinnest thread. The tears weren't for pain or the volatile treatment, but rather, the searing shame of enjoying it on some basic, mind-boggling level. He choked on a sob as two fingers pressed against the bulge. Don wanted nothing more than for her to leave, to let him calm down and regain a handle on himself. But his body disagreed, and his cock slid out hot and wet from the pressure. It was like squeezing a dog's jaws to get them open; she pressed, and he responded. 

She didn't touch it any further. Why would she? In the mind of the scientist, unnecessary touch would no doubt constitute perverse zoophilia. To her, his throbbing cock would be no different than a dog's. Or more appropriately, a small horse's. His erection hung and swayed in the air as she continued to hold his tail up. The nauseating embarrassment was no match for the sensations of gravity and the still-inserted probe. His member would twitch every few moments, as if in involuntary anticipation. 

He was enjoying it. 

A wet smack sounded through the room as the probe was pulled out without warning, causing Don to bite down on the damned bit. His tail was lowered, and a jolt shot through his every nerve as his erection came into contact with the cold metal table-top. The sounds of the labcoat moved off in the distance and he lifted his tail from the chilling surface- it was just too jarring a sensation for such sensitive flesh. 

In the absence of the Hands, he scrambled for collection and deflation. He tried to place himself some place else, away from the bindings that kept him pressed plastron-down on a table. It was difficult, however, to ignore the lubricating gel that continued to run down and drip off his tail. 

All too soon, the familiar tapping of heels approached and fell silent at the rear of the table. Don jerked suddenly as a latex-covered hand gripped him firmly by the base of his sex. He pushed and pulled frantically but fruitlessly against the restraints as the crinkle of a bag was heard. He had watched enough biology specials to realize just what she was planning to do. The scientist was going to collect a semen sample. 

The plastic ring for the bag was cold as well, but the firm grip around his base kept him hard and helped to guide it on. Once the pouch's end was able to lie against the underside of his tail, her hand began to move along the length of him. She was stroking him with gloves and a plastic receptacle between them, and still his body responded. Betrayed him. Her pumps were rigid, tight, medium-paced movements that never varied in tempo or pressure. The action was so mechanical that Don had to wonder just how often her job required this of her. 

The fabric over his eyes was heavy with tears, even as his voice became a strangled mix of sobs, groans, and even shame-invoking churrs. The pressure, the movement, the monotonous rhythm...they brought an all too familiar tightening in his tail. His face burned and his muscles ached from struggling, but nothing was going to stop this person until they've collected the sample. The events, the violations were out of Donatello's control. He could do nothing more than simply lie there whimpering while she used him to the full extent of the word. Humiliated as he was, he couldn't fight it any longer. With resignation, he gave himself over to it knowing that prolonging things would only reward him with more unwanted attention. 

She was proficient, stroking from base to tip, then rolling back up again without losing speed or pressure. Again and again and again in that maddeningly steady pace until his toes curled and his tail quivered. The crinkle of the bag along his flesh was abrasive, but exquisite; like nothing that's touched him before. The desperate moans sounded animalistic, even to his own ears, and he had started to thrust into it. But she held his tail steady, not even allowing that as she coaxed him to climax with detachment. 

He came, tugging at the straps and trying not to choke on his own saliva as he screamed. It came crashing into him, made powerful by the sheer shame and abandon. His mind exploded, colors lighting up along the backdrop of blackness. It felt as if his every nerve had been stolen, ripped out of his body in a rush of anguish and pleasure by the demands of that steady, calculating hand. Still, she continued to milk him until he was spent, twitching, with the bag nearly full. When the pouch was moved away, he was able to pull into himself with a shudder. 

The gloves snapped off, then the buckles holding him soon followed. When the bit and fabric were gingerly removed, Don rolled over with a sigh. His face was tinted a purplish red and his eyes were still shut as a pale hand caressed his damp cheek. 

His eyes cracked open slightly, still painfully embarrassed, and spoke in a reserved tone. "Well, there's one of my deep, dark, dirty fantasies that I should never have to begin with..." 

April smiled, pulling off her labcoat and handing Don a rag. "It's one of mine next time. Do you have the modified shock collar that I mentioned?"


End file.
